


The Point (aka The Blizzard, the Tie, and the Voice)

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Series: Indulgence [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clint wants what someone else has, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Name Porn, Phil wants what he thinks he can't have, Pining, Pretty Much a Full on Conversation, Prompt Fic, Prompt gone awry, Talking During Sex, Tie Kink, Tumblr Prompt, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1494673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint crashes at Coulson's place during a blizzard. The problem is, Coulson already has company. Clint's fine with that until he sees The Tie. And it isn't tied around someone's collar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Point (aka The Blizzard, the Tie, and the Voice)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [prompt list](http://desert-neon.tumblr.com/post/81753304099/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you-a).
> 
> WitchWarren here on Ao3 asked for number 17: _having a “friend” over and the other accidentally interrupting_.
> 
> The exact prompt was:
> 
> _I will give you anything for 17, with Phil and his hot sexy friend, a lot of angsting on Clint's part and sexy times._
> 
> _ALL the bonuses for:_
> 
> _Clint never thinking about his handler until then_  
>  _Not realising Coulson was gay till then_  
>  _Seeing his handler as someone buttoned up and up-tight (Extra EXTRA bonuses is you can get the sexy friend as a regular kinky-times fuck buddy or just have them doing something kinky - like REALLY kinky)_  
>  _Lascivious friend leaving all winky winky smirk cat-cream-canaries because DAMN PHIL YOU IS FINE TIGERRRRRR_  
>  _Relaxed Personal-Life Phil Has No Fucks To Give Because YOU'RE The One Interrupting_  
>  _SUDDEN ABOUNDING FANTASIES CLINT_  
>  _...._  
>  _......I think that is all. If you can give me this your name will go on the list of people time-sharing my firstborn._  
>  _And you will explode my ovaries._
> 
> I tried. I swear, I really did. I wrote about 4500 words in one night (which is huge for me), and I touched on a lot of what you asked for. And yet, somehow, I don't really think it's what you wanted. The porn is . . . incidental. The story got away from me. There's more plot than sex, and I don't even know how that happened!
> 
> So, please, keep your firstborn. Or my share of him/her, at least. I don't want kids anyway. :-p
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it, despite all the plot!
> 
> **Added Note: This fic now has art!** Once again done by [insidiousink](http://insidiousink.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr, this fic now has a drawing of Clint's face in the final scene. [Look it!](http://insidiousink.tumblr.com/post/83439691543/hip-hip-hooray-i-have-ten-followers-which-means) It isn't really very spoilery, but I will include a link in the end notes, for those of you who prefer to wait.
> 
>  
> 
> **Biscuit, thank you! You are my favorite.**

“Fucking Christ, Coulson,” Clint muttered, holding the phone to his ear with just his shoulder and rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them up. “Answer your goddamn phone.”

Coulson didn’t answer his phone.

Clint knew the fucker was home. He’d seen lights and some movement from the street. Anyway, Natasha had _told_ him Coulson would be home, and he trusted her to know the ins and outs of the man’s schedule. Nat tended to keep tabs on the people she trusted.

Clint banged on the door again even while hitting redial on his phone. He would have shouted out for the handler, but he knew damn well Coulson would not appreciate that. Anything that drew attention to him from the neighbors would be considered a bad thing in his book, and Clint needed to be on the senior agent’s good side.

“Barton,” a voice snapped in his ear, and Clint grinned. “Unless this is an emergency pickup for a job, consider me not home.”

“But you are, sir,” Clint argued, putting extra cheek into his tone. “I know you are. I’m standing outside your door.”

“I’m well aware you’re outside my door, Barton,” Coulson said and, okay, maybe Clint had pushed a little too hard already. Good side. He needed to be on it. “What I want to know is why.”

“There’s a blizzard, sir.”

There was a pause, but Clint didn’t elaborate. “That doesn’t answer my question, Agent.”

“Well. You know my building’s, uh. Not the best? And I know for a fact the generator is out. I don’t really want to risk getting caught with no heat and no power for three days or whatever.”

Coulson was quiet, and while that interrogation technique was something Clint could easily not fall to during an active mission, it was a lot harder when it was someone he trusted. Someone he needed a favor from.

“So I called Nat, right, but she’s out on an assignment and she said I should try you, and I told her that wasn’t the best idea, that I could just bunk down at HQ, but she said I should try it, and you know what she’s like, so I said I would and now I’m here and it’s getting worse out there, and I’ll go to HQ if you really want me to, but I don’t really want to go out in this again and anyway the bunks at HQ kind of suck. Heat, sure, but no TV.”

More silence.

“So, uh. Will you let me in?”

The click of the lock came right on the heels of the question, which meant Coulson had already been on his way to the door. Clint grinned, an expression that did not change in the face of the stern expression that greeted him. In fact, it only made him grin wider.

“I know when you start babbling it means you really want whatever you’re asking for,” Coulson grumped as he swung the door open in invitation. “Come in, you can stay. But I have company, so you’ll have to entertain yourself.”

“Sure, not a problem,” Clint agreed quickly, just happy to have been allowed in. But then his brain caught up to his mouth and he looked Coulson over before quickly averting his eyes again. “Right, sure, company. Got it. I am the master at entertaining myself, don’t even worry about it. You just go and . . . entertain your lady friend. I’m good out here.”

Coulson’s face went blander than bland, which Clint knew meant something, but he couldn’t figure out _what_. To be fair, the fact that Coulson was wearing only a pair of sweat pants and was sporting a pretty obvious erection underneath them was pretty distracting. Coulson was Coulson. He wasn’t supposed to _do_ that kind of thing.

Which wasn’t fair. Clint knew that wasn’t fair. The man was only human, no matter what the rumors said. He was allowed to have a girl in his life. Or several girls, if he so chose. Clint was hardly one to judge.

“Yes, well,” Coulson said, clearing his throat. Clint realized he’d zoned out a bit, and that his eyes were a bit further south than strictly proper. He wrenched his gaze up, guilty, and Coulson raised an eyebrow at him. “The remote’s on top of the TV stand, there’s leftover Chinese in the fridge, and you know where the guest room is. See you in the morning, Barton.”

Clint very deliberately did not watch his handler walk away down the hall. The fact that he followed just a few feet behind him was merely a coincidence. He did, after all, need to put his go bag in the guest room. He slowed his steps as Coulson opened his bedroom door, adjusting the strap on his shoulder that didn’t need adjusting. Coulson was far from stupid, but he didn’t even try to block Clint’s admittedly limited view.

Of a man. A naked man. On Coulson’s bed. With his hands tied together with a strip of shiny purple cloth. A _tie_. _The_ tie, in fact. The tie Clint had splurged on for Coulson after a particularly disastrous mission that had sort of kind of been Clint’s fault. The tie Coulson hardly ever wore.

Clint seriously didn’t know whether to be insulted or turned on.

The guy was probably in his mid thirties, and he was pretty well ripped. Clint didn’t have time to see much more than that before the door was swinging shut in his face. Before it closed, however, he very clearly heard Coulson’s voice. “Sorry, Eli. Unexpected guest.”

“Sir. Not a problem, sir.”

The door clicked shut just as Clint got his own door open, and he practically fell into the tiny room in his haste to get it closed behind him. _Sir_. Coulson’s “company” — his very, very _male_ “company” — called him _sir_. In bed. Where he had his hands tied together. With Clint’s tie. Well. It was _Coulson’s_ tie, fair enough, but Clint had given it to him. What the fuck.

So apparently he was turned on. He wasn’t conflicted anymore. He wasn’t insulted. He was turned on. Extremely and unfortunately turned on.

Clint sat heavily on the bed, head in his hands. How was this even his life? Coulson was his handler, his superior agent. He was distant and reserved and so goddamn _proper_. He was not supposed to have a sex life. Certainly not a secret one in which he tied people up — tied _men_ up — and expected them to call him “sir.”

He wasn’t fucking supposed to be Clint’s wet dream come to life.

A very telling, very enthusiastic groan floated through the shared wall, and Clint kicked his bag as he ran out of the room and straight for the TV. He bypassed the remote and turned the set on quickly, pressing the volume up button repeatedly and in great haste.

 

_________

 

By morning, Clint had managed to get a grip. It wasn’t fair of him to have assumed Coulson was straight. Just as he was not now assuming the man was gay. He could be bi or pan or someone who eschewed all labels. It wasn’t any of his business anyway. And just because Coulson sometimes fucked men, just because he tied them up — _with Clint’s tie_ — didn’t mean he in any way wanted to fuck Clint. Or tie him up. Or do anything other than be his normal, competent handler and sort of work friend.

So he stumbled to the kitchen, intent on getting caffeine into his system as quickly as possible, and drew up short when he saw the man standing at the counter. The man that was not Coulson and had previously been seen on Coulson’s bed. Naked. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hey. Good morning. Here, you look like you could use this.” The guy poured Clint a cup of coffee, and handed it over, and Clint had to admit that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. “I’m Eli, by the way. Eli Staten.”

“Clint,” Clint grunted over his mug. It was way too early and pre-caffeine for introductions. “Barton.”

“Oh,” Staten said, his back straightening as he pushed himself away from the counter. “Right. Phil’s mentioned you, I think.”

It was so obviously faux casual, and Clint wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Uh, okay. Sure. Sorry I can’t say the same. Coulson’s pretty tight-lipped about his personal stuff at work.”

Eli just shrugged, diminishing the weird sort of pride Clint got out of saying that. “Doesn’t surprise me, the kind of work you do.”

“And what sort of work is that?” Clint asked with narrowed eyes and bristling spine.

“For SHIELD. Oh, don’t get your hackles up, Barton. I’m Special Forces. I’ve known several guys who got recruited into your secret spy network. And while it probably doesn’t mean much to you, since it’s not SHIELD issued, I’d be willing to bet my clearance level is just as high as — if not higher than — yours.”

Clint looked the man up and down with a sneer. “I’ll take that bet.”

“No, you won’t.” Coulson wandered into the kitchen, wearing jeans and a sweater, thick socks on his feet and glasses on his face. “Neither of you will take that bet, since there’s no way to really settle it. SHIELD and the Marine Corps don’t exactly have the same rating system for clearance levels.”

“Sir,” Clint said, the response automatic. And then he shifted his feet, fighting a flush as he remembered he wasn’t the only one in the room to call Coulson that. “Coffee?” he offered, hoping to distract.

But Staten, the fucker, was already pouring some. And adding cream and sugar in perfect Coulson amounts. Coulson took it with a thanks, and let his shoulder brush against Staten’s as he settled in against the counter.

“So how long you with us, Staten?” Clint asked, and ignored the look Coulson gave him in response. So what if he had almost zero claim to Coulson or his apartment? He had more claim to him than this jerk-off did.

Didn’t he?

Staten shrugged. “Just a few days. Unless this weather holds and my flight out gets canceled. New York isn’t one of my normal stopovers, but Phil is always kind enough to put me up when it is.”

“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Coulson added, his expression one of amusement as he sipped from his mug.

“And how long have you known _Phil_?”

“I really don’t see how that’s any of your business, Barton,” Coulson said, still casual, even as Staten replied with, “I guess about three years now.”

Clint shot them both a smug look. He’d gotten the info he wanted, and it confirmed his suspicions. He’d known Coulson way longer.

“Oh, stand down, Barton,” Coulson said, clearly exasperated. “If it’s such an issue, you’re welcome to trudge back to your apartment. Or HQ.”

“Not an issue, sir,” he replied, then had to hold back his new reactions to that word. “And, uh. Thanks for letting me stay.”

Coulson shrugged. “Can’t have you freezing. Fingers and toes are the first to go, and you need yours.”

Clint grinned. He knew full well Coulson cared more than he let on. “Aw, sir. You do like me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Agent.”

 

_________

 

In the afternoon, Coulson and Staten disappeared into the main bedroom for a while.

Clint put on his headphones and iPod, and used Coulson’s supplies to clean his guns.

 

_________

 

There was soup for dinner. Easy, filling, and hot. Also, Clint knew, one of the few things Coulson felt comfortable making without somehow fucking it up. They watched a movie after, some black and white war movie Coulson had on DVD. Clint lost track of the plot pretty early on, distracted by how close the other two were sitting on the couch. They weren’t _doing_ anything, though. Sometimes the remote got passed with casual fingers, and Staten put his hand on Coulson’s thigh when he got up to get him a beer. But that was all.

It was just . . . Coulson seemed so fucking relaxed. The rigidity Clint was used to seeing in his spine wasn’t there at all, and he was looser when he moved somehow. Like he wasn’t holding himself away from everyone else.

Clint found himself wanting to be the one to make him that relaxed.

“So, uh. I’m going to bed,” Clint said, standing and speaking all in a rush.

“It’s nine-thirty,” Coulson said, his tone as mild as ever.

“Yeah. Well. You know. Tired. Long day. Tell me how the movie ends tomorrow, okay? Okay. Night.” He carefully didn’t hurry out of the room, but he may have closed the bedroom door a little more forcefully than he’d intended.

Seriously, he was so, so fucked.

 

_________

 

Clint dreamt. God, did he ever dream. Deep purple ties and strong, slatted headboards. Calloused hands and the fabric of a suit. Loud, fast-paced exhalations and “sir.” Over and over, breathless and desperate. “Sir, sir, _sir_.”

He had no idea how he was going to face Coulson in the morning. Or ever again.

 

_________

 

“Cell towers are down,” Staten reported, looking at his phone with a frown of consternation.

Both Clint and Coulson pulled out their own phones out of reflex, and Clint smirked when he saw he still had all his bars. Good ol’ SHIELD tech. “Score one for the secret spies,” he muttered in triumph.

Still, when Natasha called, she rang through on Coulson’s land line.

It was, irritatingly enough, Staten who answered. Coulson was in the shower (after another afternooner, goddamn it) and though Clint had reached for the phone, Staten had been much closer. “Hello?”

Clint seethed internally and tried not to let it show. Three years. What the fuck. Clint had known Coulson for nearly seven. _He_ should be the one answering the fucking phone.

“Wait, hold on, miss. I don’t think I’m the one you want to be talking to. Would you by any chance be looking for Clint?”

Clint leapt out of his seat and crossed the room, practically wrenching the phone out of Staten’s hand. “Nat?”

“Clint. Who the hell was that?”

Clint sent Staten a withering glare. “Coulson’s semi-regular boytoy, I guess. I don’t even know.” Staten rolled his eyes and Clint turned his back.

“Huh,” Natasha said. “He sounds a lot like you.”

“Excuse me?”

“His voice, Barton. His voice is almost identical to yours.”

“It is?”

“Yes. So are you having a good time with Coulson and his boytoy?”

“No.” The single word came out flat and unimpressed. “No, Natasha, I am not.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Nat,” Clint hissed as he moved down the hallway towards his room. “Did you know he was going to be here?”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Once he got the door shut between him and Staten, he asked, “Did you know Coulson fucks guys?”

“Again, you’re being ridiculous. Of course I knew.”

“Of course you knew,” Clint repeated, somewhat lost. “And you didn’t feel the need to tell me?”

“What does it matter?”

“I . . . It matters, okay? It just does.”

She hummed, an annoying trait she’d picked up from Coulson himself. “Should I take a stab at why?”

“No!”

Laughing at him outright, Natasha said, “Oh, Clint. You are such a moron.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Nat, he had the guy’s wrists tied. With the tie _I_ gave him! That’s just wrong.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. At least now I know why he hardly ever wears it. He prefers to use it for . . . other things.”

“I guess so.”

“You are supremely unhelpful, did you know that?”

“Am I?”

“Yes. I’m hanging up on you now.”

“To go back to Coulson and his sexy man-friend?”

“I hate you. And how do you even know if he’s sexy? He could be gross and sweaty and covered in warts.”

“First of all, sweaty is not always bad. It depends on how they got that way.”

“I meant nasty, at rest, B.O. kind of sweaty.”

“And _second_ of all,” Natasha said, talking over his mutterings, “it’s Coulson. Obviously his current sex partner is going to be hot.”

“I . . . You . . . I am not thinking about this.”

“Of course you are. Coulson is hot — and probably as good at sex as he is at everything else under the sun — you’re bi, and there’s sex going on right under your nose. With Coulson, but without you. Trust me, you’re thinking about it. Finally.”

“What do you mean, ‘finally?’”

“Idiot. I know you’re too close to it for your famous observational skills, but really. Put the pieces together already.”

“I hate you,” he repeated.

“I know you do. To make matters worse, I’m somewhere sunny and warm, with an average daily temperature of seventy-seven.”

“I really am hanging up now.”

“Sure, Clint. Say hi to sexy Coulson for me.”

Clint made a noise of disgust he didn’t really feel and followed through on his threat, disconnecting the call.

 

_________

 

Clint clenched his jaw and set his mind; he absolutely was not going to run from the room tonight. He would sit through nearly anything just to prove that he could, and wouldn’t go to bed until the sex-addled couple went first. He was a sniper. He could sit still through riots and tropical storms and fucking earthquakes. He could certainly sit through dinner and television time with Coulson and Staten.

But then Coulson asked Staten to flip on the dishwasher, and Staten replied with, “Sure thing, boss.” Coulson went stiff on the couch and very steadily looked at the TV, his thumb twitching just slightly, the most minute of movements that Clint knew only he would probably see.

Clint glared as Staten returned to the living room, grinning like he knew exactly what he’d done, and he’d done it on purpose. Coulson stood and silently left them both behind, his bedroom door closing with controlled calm.

“Are you fucking with him?” Clint growled, on edge.

“Not maliciously,” Staten answered, his eyes still radiating amusement. “Just trying to prove a point.”

“And what point is that?”

But Staten didn’t answer, choosing instead to toss Clint another grin and follow Coulson into the bedroom.

Even with the TV on, Clint could hear the obvious sounds of fucking that started up less than twenty minutes later.

Whatever Staten’s point was, Coulson clearly wasn’t too upset about it.

 

_________

 

“So, I’m out of here.”

Clint looked to where Staten had a bag in hand, carrying it over to the jackets that hung along the wall. “Thought you had another night, at least. There’s no way even a military flight is cleared for takeoff yet.”

Staten shrugged as he slipped on a thick coat. “I got a reservation at a hotel just a few blocks out. It’s cold, but clear. I’ll make it.”

“Why—” Clint started to ask, but cut himself off. It wasn’t his business. _It wasn’t his business it wasn’t his business it wasn’t his business._

Staten smiled at him, clearly unperturbed by the change in plans. “I proved my point. Maybe a little too well, but what can you do? When you’re right, you’re right.”

“You ever gonna tell me what that point is?”

“Not for me to do.” The Marine hefted his bag and sketched a wave. “See you around, Barton.”

Clint smirked. “No one ever sees me coming.”

“No,” Staten agreed. “I suppose not. Either way. Have a nice life. Don’t let Phil work too hard.”

Clint snorted his opinion of that, but Staten was already gone.

 

_________

 

Clint could have gone back to his place. The power might still have been out, but it would probably have been marginally better than the awkwardness of Coulson’s apartment. But the two times Clint tried to hint that he could go — that maybe he _should_ go — Coulson had redirected the conversation. Clint could take a hint. He hadn’t really thought the thing with Staten had been a relationship, but if Coulson was feeling lonely in the aftermath of what was pretty clearly the end of _something_ , then Clint would stay.

“So, uh. Was it my fault?”

“What?”

“Me being here. Was that what killed it? Should I have gone to HQ after all?”

“There wasn’t anything to ‘kill,’ Barton. We weren’t actually together.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look, I’m not going to pretend your presence didn’t have some kind of effect on this weekend. But it certainly wasn’t your fault.”

“Okay.”

Coulson said nothing more, flipping through all the weather and news stations instead.

“So I guess you don’t want to talk about it?” Clint felt awkward making the offer, but it seemed like the thing to do.

“Do you know why I chose him?” Coulson said, which, okay. Apparently they _were_ talking about it.

“Uh. No? I mean, no, obviously not.”

“My initial interest was sparked by a specific feature.”

“His abs?” Clint interrupted. “Because I caught a glimpse, and whoo, boy.”

“No, not his abs,” Coulson said, and he smiled tightly. “I’ve seen better, honestly.”

“Not often, though. Not in real life. Digitally altered movie stars, maybe.”

Coulson hummed quietly. “Are you going to let me get to my point?”

“Sorry,” Clint said quickly, though he wondered why everyone seemed to have a point lately.

“Anyway. He saw my interest, flirted a little, and we . . . hooked up. We ended up being extremely compatible, sexually. When it became clear it was going to happen again, I decided to be honest with him about the specific feature, and what it meant. He didn’t mind, he encouraged it, even, and from there things grew. We found other common interests — in bed, anyway — and it just became a thing. Whenever we were in the same city, we’d make an effort to meet up.”

“Uh-huh. And by ‘common interests’ you mean ‘kinks,’ right?”

“Yes,” Coulson admitted, and he didn’t flinch away at all, but his thumb twitched.

“Like tying his hands with your tie.”

“I knew you saw that.”

“Did you think I would mind?”

Coulson shrugged. “I had no frame of reference to make that call. I’d hoped you wouldn’t.”

“Not that it matters, right, sir? Uh, I mean,” he added quickly, suddenly stumbling over his words at the honorific. “I just mean, it’s your life. Your private life even. What I think doesn’t really matter.”

“Except it does,” Coulson countered quietly. “At least, I hope it does. Or maybe that it will.”

Clint stared at him, his mind racing. He was pretty sure he was putting it together correctly, but the very idea made his brain blank out and he couldn’t quite grasp the conclusion.

“It was his voice, Clint. The feature that caught my attention at the outset. It was Eli’s voice.”

Clint swallowed roughly. “Natasha said . . . She said his voice sounds like mine.”

“It does.”

“You used my tie.” Clint’s eyes were locked with Coulson’s, and he licked his lips in an effort to regain moisture in his mouth. “Your tie. The tie I gave you.”

“Yes.”

“He called you . . . Coulson, he . . .” Clint pushed himself out of the chair and practically stumbled across to his handler, landing on his knees at the man’s feet. “He called you ‘sir’ in my voice and with my tie around his wrists.”

“Yes.” Coulson’s voice was pitched low now, breathy and affected. “I tried not to let it get out of hand, I didn’t mean to fantasize or objectify you, but I—”

“Sir,” Clint said, stopping him. “You can objectify me all you want. As long as I get to be a part of it from here on out.”

Coulson made a sound in his throat at that, and Clint surged up on his knees and kissed him.

 

_________

 

“Talk to me, Barton.”

“Jesus, fuck, Coulson.” Clint was on his knees, arms braced on the mattress, getting fucking pounded by his supervising agent. His wrists were tied tight, the purple fabric’s shimmer shifting every time he was pushed forward by Phil’s steady, unrelenting cock. “What do you want me to say?”

Coulson kept running his hands over Clint’s body; his arms, his back, his ass. The touches were gentle, almost reverent, until he’d place his hands on Clint’s hips, his grip harsh and possessive. “I don’t know. I don’t really care. Fuck, Clint. Barton. Oh, fuck, never thought I’d get to say that when it wasn’t a mistake.”

Clint smirked even though Coulson wouldn’t be able to see it. “You do that sometimes, sir? Say my name instead of his?”

“A few times, maybe,” Coulson admitted. “Always by accident.”

“Not an accident now, sir.”

“No. No, Barton, it is not.”

“Ah, fuck, God, Coulson. Come on, sir. Give it to me.” He tilted his head back, panting harshly into the air. It felt so fucking good, Coulson’s hot, hard dick working like a piston inside of him.

Coulson dropped down over him, heat radiating from his slick skin, his hands bracketing Clint’s forearms. The rhythm changed with the new position, as did the angle. The thrusts were a little slower now, but more direct, and Clint gasped sharply as Coulson hit his prostate with clear intent. “Come on, Barton,” Coulson growled near his ear as he shifted to balance on one arm and used his free hand to jack Clint off. “This isn’t going to last much longer.”

“Fuck you, sir,” Clint replied jovially between labored breaths. “You’re the one who’s had sex, like, seventeen times over the past three days. Surely you can outlast the guy who’s been abstinent for months.”

“First of all, it was five times, you insolent brat. I am not a teenager anymore. Second of all, it’s been six weeks, max, since you last got laid, Barton.” The declaration was punctuated by a particularly forceful thrust, as though Coulson could wipe out the presence of anyone else who’d gotten there first.

“And how do you know that? You been keeping track of my sex life?”

“Only when it happens mission-side, and right under my nose. Venezuela, Barton?”

“Oh yeah.” Clint huffed in amusement, though it turned into a groan as Phil shifted on his knees and sped up. “That dude was so bad I kind of forgot.”

“Quickies in airport bathrooms are hardly known for being satisfying for all involved parties.”

“‘All involved parties,’” Clint repeated in disbelief. He should not have found it as hot as he apparently did. “Who even talks like that during sex?”

“Me, I guess.”

“Good. Oh, fuck, Coulson, right there. Just keep hitting it there, there, there. Sir. Fuck, sir. I take it back; you were right. Not much longer. Just keep. Doing. That. Coulson. Sir. Yes.” The last sibilant consonant became a hiss as Coulson’s hand tightened and picked up speed. A sharp, mild pain bloomed along Clint’s jaw; Coulson was nipping his way along, his teeth scraping against the slight scruff Clint hadn’t bothered to shave away the last few days. “Sir, yes, God. Coulson. Fuck me. Fuck me so hard, Coulson.”

“Phil.”

“What?”

“Say it, Clint.” Coulson’s movements were losing their fluidity. Each forward motion was a violent stab rather than any kind of graceful arc. He tugged on Clint’s earlobe with his teeth, then released it with a moan. “I want to hear you say it. I never get to hear you say it.”

“Phil,” Clint panted, giving over to the inevitable. “Fuck, Phil, yes. Phil. _Phil_.” Clint was suddenly very glad they were alone in the apartment, because there would have been no way to hide the name he’d shouted as he came.

Coulson was clearly losing it too. He reared up behind Clint, moved one leg to plant his foot on the bed rather than his knee, and drove into Clint several more times, the force of his thrusts toppling Clint face first into the mattress. “Clint, Jesus, one more time. Please, Barton, one more time.”

It took Clint a second to get his mouth to work. His tongue was dry and his brain was pretty much offline. But eventually he managed to turn his head and rasp, “Phil.”

“Fuck.” The quiet, grunted word was the only vocalization Coulson gave as his hips strained forward and he pulsed inside Clint, biology insisting that he push as far and as hard as he could.

“So that whole name thing,” Clint said once they’d both collapsed, rolled over and cleaned up a bit, then collapsed again. “Is that something you did with him too?”

Coulson huffed. “Now who’s keeping track of whose sex life?”

“I just wondered. Seemed kind of important to you, there at the end.”

“No.” Coulson shifted the pillow under his head, but didn’t take his eyes off the ceiling. “The other names — ‘sir,’ ‘boss,’ and ‘Coulson’ — I’ve heard you use those plenty of times, in tons of situations. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to twist how he sounded into what I thought you’d sound like. But I think I’ve heard you say my first name _maybe_ five times. More now, obviously. But, yeah. I didn’t have much to work with there, so I never even tried. When Eli called me Phil, it was always Eli doing the talking. I just wanted to hear it from _you_.”

“You know, I should probably be more disturbed by your fantasy sex life.”

“More disturbed?” Coulson asked mildly, and damn he always could read Clint like a book. An easy, picture-filled, nursery rhyme book. “Are you disturbed at all?”

Clint thought about that for a moment, because it was a fair question. “No, actually. If I think about it logically, I can see where it might be a little weird. But mostly I just find it stupidly hot.” He rolled onto his side and met Coulson’s gaze when the man turned his head. “Because damn. You really wanted me.”

“Want, Barton,” Coulson corrected. “Present tense.”

Clint smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

 

_________

 

Four days later, Clint sat in a briefing room full of an assembled team, agents with decades of experience and dossiers full of skills. So when Coulson walked into the room in a dark grey suit and very familiar tie, Clint knew his reaction did not go unnoticed, even if it was politely ignored by most.

“Problem, Agent Barton?” Coulson asked, his eyes crinkling in amusement as Clint coughed his way around the coffee in his throat.

“Not a one,” Clint wheezed. “Nice tie, sir.”

“Thank you, Barton. It was a gift.”

Clint smirked, determined to get his own back. “Sure thing,” he said casually, but locked eyes with the handler, showing his hand a split second before he added in a more pointed tone, “ _Phil_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, the link to the [art](http://insidiousink.tumblr.com/post/83439691543/hip-hip-hooray-i-have-ten-followers-which-means) by the amazing [insidiousink](http://insidiousink.tumblr.com/). Please go tell him just how lovely it is!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Point (aka The Blizzard, the Tie, and the Voice)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419981) by [fire_juggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler)




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